All Roads Lead to Time
by agent iz hyper
Summary: And then Sam got to make what was possibly (arguably) the weirdest observation he's made yet. "I think we might have just... time-traveled." / Dean gazed off into the distance, as if he could solve this puzzle by staring it forcibly out of its hiding spot. "Time-traveled," he echoed. "That's never happened before." - Luckily for them, Jack Harkness isn't too far away.


**All Roads Lead to Time**

* * *

**Set:** early season 3 of _Supernatural_; and sometime after 'The Year That Never Was' in _Doctor Who_ (3x13: The Last of the Time Lords) – say, the Doctor stayed in touch with Jack in case he needed him to do something. Don't know anything about the Torchwood timeline, but it's not that important.

* * *

They were in New York City, which was rare enough for the Winchesters, considering they tried to steer way clear of big cities if they could help it. Coincidentally, so did most creatures they hunted – small towns have easier pickings or something.

In any case, they weren't hunting anything down here. An old hunter acquaintance had set up shop here a while ago – the go-to guy for dealings about hunter's weapons and the like, things they either couldn't get from just anywhere or would take too long to assemble. The Winchesters didn't usually rely on others for their supplies (except maybe Bobby, but he's an exception to most of their rules) but there were some things that they needed, and they needed them pronto. With all these demons on their tails, they couldn't exactly afford to waste time preparing some of the more complex weapons or defences.

It would've been quick. It was _supposed_ to be quick. They were meant to go there, get their stuff, and then haul ass outta town (or City, if you'd like).

But, of course, these _are_ the Winchesters, and this does seem to be a Winchester-hating Universe. They couldn't possibly get anything _simple_, now, could they?

The brothers concurred to this observation rather wearily as they stood in front of the well-hidden shop amidst the busy bustling city, shadowed by the alleyways and more shadier run-down buildings surrounding it, and eyeing the dark significantly _empty _interior with by now worn-out expressions of _'now what?'_

"I'm tellin' you, I called Lewis up this morning to make sure he's got it all," Dean insisted, scowling at the closed place.

Sam also frowned, though his was more thoughtful than pissed off. "Maybe he just went out to get some last-minute stuff?" he suggested hopefully.

"Right," his brother said in sarcastic tones. "And he just left his place empty and _unlocked_." He pushed the door open to further prove his point, shooting a pointed (literally and figuratively) raised-eyebrow look over his shoulder.

Sam sighed and followed him in. They moved silently, ever cautious, both keeping a light grip on their handguns in case something fishy was up here. Considering their track record, that was a high possibility.

However, a quick yet thorough search of the shop and the apartment above it revealed a total and complete blank. In fact, judging by the still-warm coffee by the cash register, David Lewis hadn't left _too_ long ago. Hell, his jacket was still hanging on the back of the chair and no one would go outside very long in this cold without one. There were no signs of struggle at all, even his apartment door was unlocked, as though he'd simply intended to step out for a quick look at something and be back before anything could happen.

As though he hadn't meant to go any further than just outside the shop.

The brothers shared significant looks and turned simultaneously to peer out the grimy shop window from their vantage point at the desk.

What they saw was most definitely _not_ something they were expecting. How they reacted spelled their doom.

They blinked.

...And the shop was empty once more.

**XX**

The first words out of a mildly stunned Dean Winchester's mouth were, quite predictably, "Son of a _bitch_!" He backed up a step, hitting a brick wall behind him and turned wide eyes to an extremely confused Sam. "Dude! What the _hell_ was that?"

"I don't know!"

"I mean- seriously, _what the hell_?!"

"_I don't know, Dean_!"

They stared at each other for another moment before turning to survey their surroundings.

Their very unfamiliar and rowdy-as-hell surroundings, one might add.

"I don't..." Sam trailed off, eyebrows furrowing together and corners of his lips pulling down in a patented Sam Winchester: Giant Lost PuppyTM look. "Dean, where are we?" he asked slowly, and if he backed up a little so he was standing _just_ behind his older brother then, well, his actions were fully justified.

Dean just blinked at the crowd before them. They were most definitely _not_ inside David's shop, though the area looked almost the same. And not ten feet away from them, there seemed to be an angry protest or strike of some sort. All men, most around the brothers' ages – though some were significantly younger – and all dressed in raggedy clothes, their faces dark with either dirt or bruises, and most waving around thick sticks or similar objects-turned-weapons. They were yelling and advancing on a bunch of officers, backing them down the street and ignoring the batons and pepper-spray as much as they could in the heat of their anger.

It was pretty chaotic.

"Damn," Dean muttered. "What is this?"

Beside him, Sam looked around them curiously, taking note of the boarded-up shop windows and general state of disorder all around, and came to the conclusion that something was very, very wrong.

"Dean?"

"What?"

And then Sam got to make what was possibly (arguably) the weirdest observation he's made yet. "I think we might have just... time-traveled."

There was a heavy pregnant pause between the brothers, where the crowd's obscene shouting seemed to fade dramatically in the background as the weight of this statement and the truth of their changed-yet-not-really surroundings hit them with all the subtlety of a two-by-four. (And they could both say from experience that the subtlety was all but non-existent).

Dean gazed off into the distance, as if he could solve this puzzle by staring it forcibly out of its hiding spot. "Time-traveled," he echoed. "That's never happened before."

"Yeah," Sam said, his arms crossing across his chest in a rather pointless defensive move. He glanced around again, critically this time. "I'd say some time before the 60's. War-time, maybe?"

"That's great," Dean muttered, seeming to snap out of the shock. He took a deep breath and stood up straighter, his familiar cocky mask firmly back in place as he strode purposefully down the street to the few stragglers watching the small riot with expressions ranging from amusement to downright boredom. Dean approached one dull-looking man and, his brother following almost anxiously, said loudly as he neared him, "Hey, pal!" Seeing that he'd gotten the man's attention (though, judging by what seemed like a permanently-fixed stiff scowl, not his interest), he asked, "What's the date?"

The man tilted an eyebrow at him smoothly, clearly thinking they were wasting his time – which, Dean thought as he shot back his own (mightily superior) pointy cocked eyebrow, was bull seeing as the guy had been doing nothing besides _standing_ there.

"What, can't pick up a newspaper, kid?"

Dean's (mightily superior) eyebrow fell to join its partner in a scowl as he got up in the other man's face. The guy didn't even _flinch_ – which, really, would have been admirable if it wasn't a Winchester he was facing down, in which case it was just stupid. "Look here, mister-"

"Dean-"

"Shut up, Sam, I'm-"

"Intimidating the poor guy, I can see that – but look!"

Dean huffed and tore his thundery eyes away from the now wide-eyed man to see what Sam was pointing at. It was a newspaper on the floor, trodden on and muddied and dirty, but the headline and date as clear as day.

"1947..."

Dean groaned as the all-too-dreaded feeling of defeat threatened to crawl up out of its hole and throw up all over him.

"Sixty years," Sam added in what could have possibly been a whimper, but was more of a... well, okay, it was a whimper.

A few moments were then spent in appreciative silence as their newfound knowledge churned in their minds and the situation became just _that_ much more real. It was rather awful, really.

"Now what?" Dean said dully, eyeing the rioters as they began to break off, some still taunting the police officers but most making a break for it. He pulled back as a couple of younger men dashed by near them, almost knocking him over without an apology as they ran further into an alley – an officer on their tails. Sam glanced at Dean, eyebrows rising. Dean looked back with a shrug. They both turned back to the man Dean had confronted before, who was trying to back away with a look of trepidation once they both caught him.

"Not so fast, dude. Where's the nearest motel?"

**XX**

Half an hour later, they were in a cheap motel room and Sam was scouring the latest newspaper so he could determine what exactly was going on here. He was also being greatly hindered by his brother, who was pointedly _not_ doing anything to help out and had instead taken to grousing over the loss of his car.

"The hell are we supposed to get around without my baby? She's still parked in that street, _in NYC_, with no-one to watch out for her – someone could steal her! Sammy, _someone could_-"

His tirade was interrupted (rather rudely) by a rolled up newspaper hitting him square in the face. Dean tore it off, his previous sulk giving way to an indignant scowl aimed his brother's way. Said-brother looked nothing if not unimpressed.

"Dean, you're not helping," Sam told him in that '_I am going to handle this like a reasonable adult because that is what I am and you are clearly not_' tone, accompanied by a low-level Bitchface of 'Dean, You _Child_'.

Dean merely glared and crossed his arms, falling back to lean against the bed's headboard stubbornly. "What do you want me to do, go out on the streets asking for directions? '_Hey, sir, excuse me, but mind telling me how to get back to the year 2007? Yeah, me and my brother are kinda stuck in the wrong year_' – oh yeah, that would go down well. We looked at a creepy-ass demon-angel statue thing and ended up in the '40s. 'Course, _that_ won't get our asses admitted now would it?" he said, so heavy on the sarcasm it was almost palpable streaming out of his mouth.

Sam stared at his brother flatly. "Well, you're not gonna _sit_ on your ass all day. We need to find out what that thing was, and maybe we can find a way back then."

Dean just shrugged. He fingered the newspaper and turned a few pages, completely unruffled by the glare so heated it could burn toast (and not just blacken it 'til it was nice and crispy) aimed his way. Of course, he'd had years of ignoring said-glare so, really, Sam shouldn't have bothered. It always ended the same.

Sam clenched his jaw and huffed, irritated, before getting up and trudging to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Dean looked up then, a victory smirk firmly in place.

Hey, life was short and its pleasures were sweet. He might as well take advantage of them whenever he got the chance.

The smirk slipped at the thought, though, as his eyes strayed again to the date at the top of the newspaper. It was June in 1947. They were currently stuck in 1947.

He had a demon deal hanging over his head, a deal giving him exactly one year from the second of May, 2007, and then he'd get his ass committed alright. Committed to _Hell_.

...So, if he wasn't around on the second of May in 2008, did the deal still hold? Or would his count-down continue in this timeline, letting him die in 1948 instead?

Dean scratched his head as he thought. It was confusing, to say the least. How would they even _exist _right now, if they weren't even born? Surely they'd find a way back soon – they couldn't possibly still be around when their actual birthdates came around, that couldn't happen. That's _if_ they'd ever get to live that long, anyway. At least he was certain that, unless he somehow evaded his deal, _he_ would be long gone by the time that happened.

Sam, though...

But his thought bubble was then suddenly and rudely popped by an unfamiliar chuckled "I'd lay off all that heavy thinking, if I was you."

The speed at which Dean got to his feet and managed to whip out his now-cocked handgun to point at the intruder in their room (and, seriously, _what the hell?_) would have made John proud. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded, gun steady and glare unwavering.

The man lifted his empty hands in a universal gesture of peace, also showing he was unarmed – unless he was hiding his weapons under that long coat of his, and honestly, who wore something like that- oh right... different time, different fashion. He shot an easy grin at Dean, nodding a hello. "Jack Harkness," he drawled, appraising the Winchester with an appreciative look. "Nice to meet you."

Dean narrowed his eyes in suspicion (life-old motto: trust no-one at sight) and shifted suddenly to cover the bathroom door behind him from the man's – Jack's – view when he heard it open, Sam's confused "_Dean?_" alerting him. "I don't know," he answered his brother's unasked question tersely, attention never diverting from the possible-threat, who winked over Dean's shoulder at Sam. "Guy appeared outta nowhere."

"Well, I wouldn't say out of _nowhere_," Jack interjected in helpful tones. He waved his right hand, making Dean tense a little when he saw the dark attachment on his wrist. "Vortex manipulator – it helps me travel. Handy little thing."

He was met with two blank looks.

Jack's grin turned up a notch in the amusement factor. He jerked his chin at Dean's gun. "Mind putting that down? I wasn't planning on getting shot today, this is a new shirt and, really, it's pretty annoying to wake up from, I can tell you that."

Dean stared at him for a bit, studied the honest (or so it seemed) face and searched his eyes for any bad intent. Finding none, he slowly lowered the gun, but didn't make any other moves as the man dropped his hands and checked the time.

"Alright. So!" He spread his hands at them with that ever-present confident smile. "I hear you guys are stuck."

**XX**

Things had been relatively quiet over at Torchwood lately – 'quiet' as in the alien shenanigans were just that, _shenanigans_, nothing more – so when Jack woke one morning to find a message from none other but the Doctor himself... needless to say, he jumped at it.

Which is how Jack Harkness found himself all the way in the United States, the year 1947, trying to explain to the two (judging by the Doctor's note, highly important for future events over at their end of the world) brothers that they'd been zapped back a few decades because they'd blinked when they shouldn't have.

Yeah. Heavy emphasis on 'trying'.

"So you're saying these angel statues can teleport us back in time in the time it takes to _blink_?" the older (insanely good-looking) brother, Dean, said sceptically.

Jack considered his words then nodded. "Yeah, that sums it up nicely."

The flat look he got in return was cheerfully ignored.

"So, can't we just go back and find it and let it take us back?" said Sam, so cutely naive that Jack had to chuckle as he waved his Vortex Manipulator.

"Not how they work, but no worries boys, that's why I'm here."

"What exactly does that do?" Sam asked, eyeing the device with an expression that was two times curious and three times wary. Jack grinned. These people, living in suspicion of everything. He'd tell them to loosen up a little but last time he gave that advice to someone... well, suffice to say, alien prison cells on the planet of the Vixzoon were only there for major criminals, but it turned out pretty okay. Hadn't been his first prison rodeo – definitely won't be his last.

He can't quite say the same for the other guy.

"I think the schematics might fly over your 21st century heads," he shrugged in way of explanation, then added, "Let's just stick with the fact that it can take you back to your own year without much trouble."

"How do we know you're not jerking us around?" Dean interjected, crossing his arms with a hostile air that told Jack he wasn't liked by at least one Winchester. He sighed. _Damn_.

"How do you think I got in here?" he replied, letting an eyebrow rise as a satisfactory smile lifted his lips at Dean's grudging "_Touché_".

It took a bit more time, but eventually both brothers had let down their defences enough to trust him to send them back. Just as Jack was about to press the Vortex Manipulator, however, Dean asked seriously, "What happens if we stay here?"

Sam shot him a surprised look. Jack considered him silently, eyes meeting those dark, sheltered green ones. "You live on in this timeline," he said quietly, watching Dean carefully. "Grow old until the day the Angel touched you, which is when you would die. Weeping Angels feed off your life force. It's a nasty way to kill someone, send them far away from home so they're forced to live out their life in an entirely new place." A wry twist of his lips as he caught the frown adorning the other man's face. "Especially if you've got unfinished business back home?" he added knowingly.

The Winchesters exchanged a dark look.

"Oh, yeah," Sam muttered, pensive as he stared at his brother, who was pointedly not meeting his eyes.

Dean cleared his throat, making an effort to skewer the tension, and nodded at Jack. "Alright, let's get this show on the road. You ready?"

"Born ready," Jack winked, grinning at the eye-roll he got in return.

And in a flash, the Winchesters (plus one) left yet another room empty.

**XX**

_Back to the present_...

Sam watched in amusement as Dean ran a hand over the Impala's hood, muttering about '_never stranding you again, baby..._', and shook his head with a laugh of disbelief.

"We've only been gone a couple of hours, Dean," he told his brother, who very eloquently retorted with a meaningful finger and nothing else. Sam rolled his eyes in a well-practiced long-suffering expression.

Beside him, Jack snorted a laugh. "Cute." He looked up and then checked his watch again. "I'd better be off. Last time I left my team a few hours-"

"Team?" Sam looked at him curiously. "You never said – how'd you know where to find us?"

Jack's grin turned sly. "Oh, I know this guy... He knows a little something about everything," he said vaguely.

Sam narrowed his eyes, puzzled. Jack didn't elaborate, just clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Well, it was nice meeting you, Sam."

The taller man nodded, still confused, as Jack strode over to say goodbye to Dean. He shook Dean's hand with a smile. "Maybe I'll see you two sometime. Take care, okay?"

Dean looked at him curiously as Jack stepped back and raised his device. "Yeah... you too."

"And – Jack." Sam shot him a grateful smile. "Thanks for helping us out."

"Remember – next time you see a Weeping Angel... _don't blink_," Jack grinned back, saluted, and then disappeared.

Sam and Dean blinked over at each other, each as unnerved as the other.

"Well," Dean said finally. "Think that's enough excitement for a day."

"More than enough," Sam agreed wholeheartedly. "Even by our standards."

They glanced around at the once-again familiar place, gazes lingering on the still dark hunter's shop, the front now vacant of any statutes - creepy-ass angels or others. They'd asked about Lewis, but Jack had explained regrettably that there was nothing to be done for him – the Angels rarely transported people to the same time and place, and even so, it would be risky tampering with his timeline like that.

The Winchesters were another story. They needed to be in their time because some things just had to happen or else everything would be disrupted. He didn't specify what, claimed he didn't know details, but Dean got the sinking feeling that he knew what it was.

But, hey, he wouldn't be Dean Winchester if he didn't face this thing head-on, right? Winchesters ain't cowards – they don't run away from the good fight; Weeping Angels or not.

* * *

**A/N:** hello, dear readers! :D So, this little plot bunny quite literally _attacked_ me this morning and kept pestering me until I wrote it. It had me at claw-point, I tell you, and those bunny claws are damn terrifying. *nods wisely*

But, ah, on another note... I guess I'm dedicating this fic to **xxDodo**. *grins* *waves* Cuz you're the one who got me into the madness that is Doctor Who so I think it's only fair that I dedicate my first DW-related fic to you as kudos and stuff. :P Though I guess we're even cuz I got you into Supernatural, but meh, details.

I could've expanded this, or added the Doctor in somehow, but I didn't wanna let it get too big. I'm still not entirely comfortable writing Jack, and the Doctor's personality (_any_ of them) would need to be done pretty perfectly so I'll just... leave that to more experienced folk. *waves hand* Nonetheless! This was really fun. xD Tried hard not to let it get serious 'cause it wasn't meant to be, and also I apologise for any and all inconsistencies or flaws in anything you might find. x)

Well. That's it. Thanks for reading, and wouldn't mind some **reviews** ;) Or else... I'll sic an Angel or two on you, but uh... no pressure. *innocent*

~iz.


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